Zoop Goes to Middle Earth - Part I
by Zoop
Summary: Gratuitous, shameless self-insert. Ever wonder what Orcs in Middle Earth are *really* like? Me too. So I'm taking a trip to Arda to get the scoop on my favorite angst-ridden, misunderstood, just-wanna-be-loved critters, the Orcs. And hope I don't get eaten along the way. (Warning: may be occasionally humorous, but I make no promises.)
1. Starting Out in Mundane-Land

**A/N:** Some have claimed that a few of my stories are 'self-inserts,' as though my original characters are somehow 'me' vicariously having these exciting adventures. Maybe. A little. Among the vast ranks of authors, I don't think I'm alone in that some aspects of my characters' personalities are bits and pieces of myself. But I have never consciously written a story wherein I, personally, am the protagonist.

_Until now_.

So pop some corn and hang on to your hats, folks. You might wanna get a tight grip on your seats as well. Zoop's going to Middle Earth to interview Orcs. To get the _real_ scoop on what they're thinking in the primary period of her writing. The end of the Third Age, if you're not keeping score.

Word of warning: Zoop is not going to dive headfirst into Orc pants. She's a happily married woman. With children. This does not mean she won't throw _others_ directly into Orc pants. Gleefully. With wild abandon and much maniacal laughter. Hand over fist, if needs be. I like to put a smile on an Orc's face; that's how I roll. :D

* * *

**Zoop Goes to Middle Earth  
Day 1 – Starting Out in Mundane-Land**

In preparation for my grand adventure, I've gathered a mess of crap I'm sure I won't need, but can't seem to walk out the door without. Figuratively speaking. Because one can't just walk into Mordor.

To begin with, I want to be as unobtrusive as possible. As non-just-bamfed-in-from-another-world as I can get. So clothing-wise, I'm going for serf. I've got the medieval equivalent of clam-diggers, a bulky shirt without buttons, a cloth vest, and brogans from a recent Civil War re-enactment's merchant tent because I refuse to putter about barefoot in a hostile environment. I did that once the night before the Indy 500, and was picking glass out of my feet for hours afterward. _Never again_.

It took some hunting on the internet, but I managed to secure a canvas bag that looked semi-not-from-the-21st-century. It's a replica of the one Kaylee carries in _Firefly_, if you're curious. Adorable.

Yes, I'm totally going to Middle Earth carrying a Kaylee bag. What of it?

Next, the contents have to be helpful to me, but not 'give away the game' helpful so to speak. Nor can any of it be electronic, unless I want to also bring the schematics for a Hobbit-powered charging device. Badly as I want to bring my iPod and entertain Orcs with Rammstein and Abba. Nope, better leave the introductions to disco and death metal to my fics. Orcs can't kill me if they're make-believe.

So far, I'm planning on bringing the following: hand sanitizer, bars of soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, a roll of TP (I assume by the time it runs out, a 'native' solution will have presented itself), a year's supply of the medications I have to take (one does not make it to middle age without requiring a drug regimen – this is America), and a means of return. And changes of clothing. We won't be re-wearing underwear six times by flipping it inside out and rotating around the waist and leg holes, no matter how desperate we are.

I've contemplated it, and I think I will most definitely bring _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy with me for reference. Here are two reasons why that is not a problem: 1) it would likely take an act of someone's deity to translate modern English text into ancient Westron text, which I think is written in Tengwar anyway, and 2) a lot of the place and people names are likewise 'translations' from the 'original,' so nobody will know who anyone is anyway.

Black Speech references, I assume, would be useless since they are, by and large, modern inventions. If the Ring's inscription can't help me, nothing will.

The other trick that I hope won't be a problem (insert quiet chuckle here) is understanding the common speech of the 'natives' of Middle Earth. (snicker harder) I'm anticipating that (snort) there is enough of a relationship between _spoken_ Westron and modern English that conversations won't be an issue (giggle).

But just in case I'm dead wrong, a Sindarin dictionary is also coming along. I've even translated some useful phrases for particularly desperate situations, such as, 'Where can I pee?', 'Should I run from that?', and 'Don't kill the Orc.' I'm also bringing along an adventuring girl's bulk supply of pepper spray and some short bungee cords for detaining hostiles. I'm not Biz, for crying out loud.

Now then. The means of _getting_ there. And returning once the damage is done, of course. I'm not going to reveal _those_ secrets. We each visit Middle Earth in our own fashion. Mine will involve the Witching Hour, and that's all I'll say on the matter.

Next stop, Rivendell. Or Moria, if I overshoot the target.

* * *

**References:**

Biz – protagonist of _Weird Summoning_


	2. Target Acquired and Missed

**Day 2 – Target Acquired and Missed**

Getting off to a rip-roaring start already. I have arrived 'safely,' if this can be called 'safe.' I am literally lost in the middle of nowhere, without a soul to ask directions of. If this is Rivendell, the place has gone to hell.

If I were to make an educated guess, I'd say I'm in Hollin. The place used to be overrun with Elves, and that could be what this broken down building that I'm camping in is from. As I try to get my fat ass comfortable and not dwell on the fact that I left the house this morning without so much as a granola bar to my name (this is what happens when I get over-excited and rush myself – at least I remembered notepads and assloads of pencils), I can hear wolves off in the distance giving some poor bastards a rough time. I'm sincerely hoping that when night falls, I'll see some fireworks, because then I'll know that the Fellowship is near.

Otherwise, there are some things worth noting. One, this place is really, really quiet. Oh sure, you've got the usual sounds of wind knocking the tall grass around and whistling through the ruins, but you don't have cars. No honking and whatnot. And the skies are totally clear, too. It's like the US after 9/11, when the airports all shut down and planes stopped flying for days on end. You didn't realize how much a part of your life a sky full of jet trails was until there weren't any. That's what this is like.

It's like walking inside of a visionary's dream here. Tolkien wasn't all that fond of industrialization – you'll notice when he talks about machinery and pollution, it's usually in the hands of the bad guys – and favored a more romantically pastoral environment. So, you know... you can breathe the air and likely drink the water without needing an inhaler or purifier. I assume on the water, anyway. I had the good sense to bring some from home just in case. Wish I'd packed at least _one_ Twinkie, for crying out loud.

With the absence of combustion engines comes unexpectedly clean_-smelling_ air. I had no idea that, even in the little city-ish town sort of thing I live in, there's enough pollution to make a difference. I almost couldn't breathe when I arrived, like there's suddenly too much oxygen and my system freaked a little. Like there are still frickin' _trees_ to produce it or something insane like that. (/sarcasm)

Apart from being nervous as all hell that something Tolkien didn't see fit to share about this region might show up – like roaming bears or ravenous badgers or mountain lions with a vendetta – it's pretty nice here. I could get used to it. Assuming the wolves and wargs Gandalf singes don't scamper away in _this_ direction.


	3. Miscalculation of Ginormous Proportions

**Day 3 – Miscalculation of Ginormous Proportions**

Near as I can figure it, the date is January 13, 3019. Or thereabouts. The pissy wolves and fireworks in the distance were, indeed, the Fellowship passing through on their way to Moria, having discovered that the Redhorn Pass is full of shit. I mean snow. And cranky mountain attitude problems.

Slight miscalculation regarding the language barrier. And apparently the proximity of English to Westron. Every word out of my mouth makes them all pee their pants. Not because I sound funny, either; they are _not _smiling. I have no idea what the problem is. All I said was, 'Do you understand me?' and they flipped their shit in six different directions.

_Major_ miscalculation about the Fellowship's grasp of poorly pronounced Sindarin. Aragorn is trying like a trooper to understand me, so he gets Awesome Future King points. Legolas is evidently offended by my struggles, as if I'm doing it on purpose. Frodo is super tolerant, and seems to commiserate with me, like his first forays into Elvish 101 were also fraught with pain and anguish. I've managed, I think, to convey that I don't eat people, I couldn't hurt anyone appreciably (pepper spray attacks notwithstanding), and what a coincidence, I'm heading in the same direction as they are! Lucky me! And by the way, has second breakfast started yet? (Pippin is now completely in favor of me joining the group.)

Boromir, of all people, is eying me warily. Like I'm somehow a bigger threat to their quest than he is. Oh son... you and I have to talk...

Then there's Gandalf. I can't be sure, but I think he knows what I'm saying, whether because he actually speaks English, or he has some sort of bizarro Maia translation power. Or a fish in his ear. I'm going to be keeping an eye on him, because Sindarin is bullshit. They're all watching me suspiciously, which is really unnerving, but at least they haven't set fire to torches and run me off yet.

I'll have to take Gandalf aside pretty soon and 'splain things. The last thing I want to do is run afoul of a wizard ten minutes into my mission.

Well, this one, anyway. I could give a shit about Saruman.


	4. Wizards Know Everything

**Day 4 – Wizards Know Everything**

**January 14, 3019 (probably)**

Finally camping. I did some quickie sketches of the gang by firelight*, which impressed them enough to decide I'm not a closet Fellowship murderer. Honestly, anyone who draws like a grade schooler can't be much of a threat, right?

I'm realizing now that I should have lost 100 pounds before embarking on this journey. I'm exhausted, my feet are killing me (even with the Gel soles), my hips hurt, and I have nearly exhausted my roll of TP thanks to the weird, non-preservative-enriched food and manky water sources. So much for 'pastoral.' That is clearly a euphamism for 'massive quantities of e-coli.'

And a giant squid nearly ate me on the way in here. It's fun to giggle over tentacle porn; not so fun to be the star of it.

So yeah, Moria. The Black Pit. Khazad'dum. Probably something else Elvish. We're at the famous 'crossroads' location for the 'night.' I'm watching Pippin like a hawk. And eying the pebble supply. I counted them; if even one goes missing...

I had a chat with Gandalf. By some squicky, weird twist of fate that I'm _certain _Tolkien didn't intend, English equates to Black Speech in Middle Earth. How do you like them apples? No wonder Legolas has been pushing the boundaries of his Depends every time I open my mouth. I'm sorely tempted to get behind that Elf and sing Rick Astley songs in his ear. I may even whisper nonsense like 'grunties' just to get a rise out of him.

On a personal note, Gandalf's impressed by my 'refined' usage of the language. Just like the good dark lord intended, congratulations.

No, Gandalf has no idea what I'm writing, nor does he recognize the alphabet used in my LOTR book. I laid it out for him – where/when I'm from, how much I know, what my ultimate goal is. No spoilerific reveals, just generalizations like, 'Ya'all are headin' down the right track. Thumps up and kudos to you.' Ample reassurances that, though my knowledge of the Ring's making and history rivals his, I have no designs on the overbearing dingus, and actually couldn't care less about it.

Although, I _am_ curious about one thing. Maybe when I've been around these guys longer, I'll get up the nerve to ask. But don't you wonder? Our world is utterly dry of anything 'magical' – would the Ring have any effect on me? Am I considered 'outside the world' from Arda's perspective, so the Ring wouldn't 'call' to me, as it were? It's rather intriguing. I'll have to file that away for later. Maybe I'm as immune as Tom Bombadil, you think?

But my 'thing' about Orcs, and my interest in their favorite colors, preferred vacation spots, and musical choices, seems a little... odd to him, for some reason. Huh. Am I the _only_ one who finds this stuff interesting?

**Gandalf**: I beg your pardon?

**Me**: I want to talk to Orcs. Get their perspectives. The other side of the coin, so to speak.

**Gandalf**: [rapid blinking] I... that is to say... Are you quite certain?

**Me**: Absolutely. It's why I came here. I know you guys have the Ring business in good hands. I'm hoping to have as little impact on _that_ as I can. I just want to catch an Orc – maybe a couple, for a broader view – and interview him. That's pretty much it.

**Gandalf**: What you propose is exceptionally dangerous. By their nature, they are...

**Me**: [challenging] Are you sure about that? Have you, personally, ever talked to one?

**Gandalf**: No. I have not had the... pleasure. You must understand how they were made...

**Me**: [dismissive wave] Thousands of years ago, uncountable generations ago. Forget what they were, because that's water under the bridge. What are they _now_?

**Gandalf**: [sigh] I do not know. I strongly advise you not to pursue the answer yourself.

**Me**: I came here to do that. I'm _going_ to do it. Between your time and mine, all Orcs disappear. _All_ of them. Where I come from, that's called genocide, and it's an abhorrent practice. Your mission is to poke Sauron in the eye as hard as you can; where do you think the loss of the Dark Lord is going to leave them? What do you think they'll be like when their driving force disappears from the world? I want to find out. I hope you and the rest here will help me, but if I have to do it alone...

**Gandalf**: That I cannot allow. I will speak with Aragorn. [slight smile] You are a fool, perhaps, but one whose intentions seem to be without malice. I hope, for your sake, this quest does not lead to your ruin.

**Me**: No kidding. My husband would be _pissed_ if I left him alone with the kids.

Having Gandalf available to talk to is a double-edged sword. In a day or two, he'll be out of the picture for awhile, and I'll be back to poring over Sindarin words I can barely pronounce. I'm starting to pick up a few words here and there in Westron, but it's slow going. My ability to absorb foreign languages has always been pathetically inadequate.

Oh snap. Guess who wasn't watching the pebble pile? A plink and a splash, the Westron equivalent of 'Fool of a Took!', and the show begins. See ya'all in Lothlorien.

* * *

**A/N:** See my profile for them quickies! Sketches, I mean. Honestly, people...


	5. I'm Better at Climbing Trees Than Tanith

**Day 6 – I'm Better at Climbing Trees Than Tanith**

**January 16, 3019 (I'm guessing)**

Maybe I'm in my mid-40s and overweight, but I can get up a rope ladder pretty damn fast when someone threatens me with Orc-applied GBH*. Since I've written _exhaustively_ about the whole Moria Event (and so has Tolkien, let's be honest), I don't think I need to enumerate every little detail of my embarrassing showing in the Chamber of Marzipan* or whatever it was called. Let's just say that I channelled my inner Tanith and not only knocked a few heads in with Sam's frying pan, but I also dampened my drawers.

Some assumptions I made in _Dreaming of You_ hold true in reality: unwashed, grown Men do not smell like roses; Elves never look like they've been living rough no matter what horrible disaster they've just lived through; and Gimli is short.

In a nutshell, we stomped Moria like a drunk in an alley and ran out squealing like pigs. Gandalf took a side trip with an old friend, and we're now stuck up a tree on the border of Lothlorien.

I know what you're thinking: Gosh, Zoop, you were just in Orc Central! Why didn't you grab yourself one?

Two reasons: 1) there were hundreds of them, and they were pissed, and 2) the night ain't over yet.

But about what Orcs _really _look like, or at least the ones in Moria. I got some pretty good looks at those fellas, and let me tell you – they don't have any. Good looks, I mean. Okay, probably faces only their mothers could love. Or stare at it long enough and it kinda morphs into 'not barfaliciously hideous.' I didn't get that kind of time to really digest and absorb their features. Kind of in a hurry.

So these guys were sort of... primate-ish, like a strange diversion from the line that produced humans. Only smaller, some of them. Hobbit-sized, mostly. There were a few bigger ones that were threatening to reach Aragorn's shoulder. Their skin color was difficult to identify in the darkness, really tough to pinpoint in firelight. They're basically dark-skinned, and damned hard to see when the lights go out.

I didn't see a damn one of them smiling, but I saw lots of teeth. It was like a dog walking into a roomful of angry, wet cats. Mouths open, teeth bared, hissing and spitting... I don't know if they actually talked coherently among themselves during the fight because a) _busy_, and b) they seemed to know exactly what they were doing, reducing the need to discuss matters. And what they were doing was piling on top of us in a massive swarm. Who needs finesse when you can bulldoze? (Obviously these guys don't watch well-choreographed fight scenes, which would teach them to take turns attacking the good guys. Sheesh.)

And of course, they brought a cave troll. Orcs of any breeding know how to accessorize.

Also, for the record, Orcs have red blood, not black. They have large quantities of it, as a matter of fact. Cleaving a head in twain, for example, unleashes a massive amount of blood and vomit. Though technically, the vomit came from me, not the Orc. And here I always thought I could handle blood and brains getting splattered, thanks to prime time news programs and after-school television specials, and it was only _snot_ that made me queasy. You learn something new every day.

Oh wait, there's some action on the ground. Hold on.

* * *

GBH = Grievous Bodily Harm  
Chamber of Marzipan = Chamber of Mazarbul, Balin's tomb

**References:**

Tanith – Protagonist/narrator of _Dreaming of You_


	6. Elves are Wet Blankets

**Day 7 - Elves are Wet Blankets**

**January 17, 3019 (who knows?)**

Apparently, the Galadhrim believe in 'catch and release' when it comes to Orc prisoners. The 'release' part being so the little blighter's on the run when they shoot him. Something tells me that Tolkien's glasses are a bit rose-tinted when it comes to his Elves.

So I had possession of a scared shitless Moria Orc for about ten minutes, during which he mostly hissed and spat. No chance of talking him in off the ledge with swords and arrows pointing in his face. Nor did I have enough time to sketch out what he looked like. There is no appreciation for art in Lothlorien; don't let the gorgeous architecture fool you.

Since I can't get a decent word out in Sindarin, and 'Don't kill the Orc' turned out to mean (evidently) 'Shoot him in the back' in translation, I wasn't able to save the poor bastard. Don't think for a minute that's not bothering the crap out of me right now.

Also, our Marchwarden escorts' pissy attitude toward outsiders has been exacerbated by me, since a) I tried to help an Orc, OMG, and b) I clearly speak the Orcish language. Fluently. Better than the Orcs do, very likely. Not that I had time to find out.

We're taking a short breather on the way to meet the Lord and Lady of the Wood. Once again, I'm feeling my inner Tanith: an audience with the most influential Elves in all of Middle Earth, and I stink like a men's locker room, my hair is greasy from lack of 'care,' I have pit stains and crotch stains (from sweat, yuh nasties), and I can barely stand, I'm so god damned tired. Honestly, are we in that big of a damn hurry? We're going to be here for a month or something. At least let _me_ freshen up; I'm fatter and older than everyone in this group. Okay, I'm older than the Hobbits for sure, and possibly Boromir. But definitely fatter than _anybody_. I am the Fellowship of the Ring's token Bombur. Every adventuring party needs a Bombur, amiright?

Dammit, break time's over. Time to drag my befouled ass before the Queen. Gods, I hope she speaks Orcish or this is going to be one long, painful visit.


	7. Galadriel Don't Put Up With Shit

**Day 8 - Galadriel Don't Put Up With Shit**

**January 18, 3019 (in some drug-induced fantasy)**

I thought it was going to be the most awkward conversation _ever_, considering the stink-eye I kept getting from Haldir as he introduced me (and the rest of the party) to Galadriel last night. Didn't know what they were saying, of course. Could've been Sindarin; might've been Quenya. She's older than dirt; it could go either way. What I did _not_ expect was anything resembling fluency in conversational Black Speech. That kinda threw me.

But yeah, Galadriel speaks Orcish. She confessed an obvious aversion to it, and I wisely didn't ask what that aversion might entail (crap on toast, who _doesn't_ know about her baby girl?). She managed, also, to keep the pee-pee dancing to a minimum. Some cringing and shuddering, like the words themselves were poisonous, but otherwise coherent.

**Galadriel**: I am told you attempted to save an Orc captured within our borders.

**Me**: Yes, I did.

**Galadriel**: You also speak their tongue. Fluently.

**Me**: According to ya'all, yes, what I'm saying sort of sounds... like Orcish. I have no idea why.

**Galadriel**: [arch eyebrows] Don't you?

**Me**: No.

**Galadriel**: What purpose would that particular Orc have served? Why did you seek to prevent his death?

**Me**: Look, I'll level with you: I'm here to learn about Orcs. Talk to them, get their perspective, understand them. That pretty much means I'm going to have to keep one or two of them alive to manage it. [pause] Alive longer than ten minutes, that is.

**Galadriel**: [frown] For what purpose?

**Me**: [thoughtful pause] [shrug] For the hell of it, I guess. No particular reason. I'm not trying to 'change the world.' I'm just on a fact-finding mission.

**Galadriel**: Indeed. And what do you plan to do with your... facts?

**Me**: [sly, defiant smile] We'll see, won't we?

**Galadriel**: [narrows eyes] You will tell me now, or you will force my hand.

**Me:** [Zoop's wishy-washy backbone collapses] All right, here's the thing. Yes, I do want to affect some kind of change in this world. At least as far as making you fully aware of what you're all doing, once the Ring goes foosh and Sauron is out of the picture.

**Galadriel**: We are well aware of what we are doing. It is the same task that we began ages ago. The servants of Melkor must be battled until they are no more, then peace may reign on Arda.

**Me**: [smirk] That's the story, is it? Do these 'servants of Melkor' have any say in the matter? Any voice of their own? Are they the same today that they were back when the orders were handed out?

**Galadriel**: They continue as they began, sowing fear and hate where there was once love and peace. They hate all things, all beings, and seek to destroy all in their path. They...

**Me**: ... might have changed over the past eleventy-thousand years. They've had periods of peace themselves, when Melkor and Sauron have been stripped of power and sent packing for hundreds of years at a stretch. What do you think they did all that time?

**Galadriel**: [frown] They hid in their holes and... I do not know.

**Me**: Maybe they formed communities? Maybe they developed family and clan structures? Maybe they learned how to work together for the betterment of their kind – raising young, caring for their sick and injured, protecting their territories against hostile invaders? Maybe they thrived in some semblance of peaceful coexistence with their neighbors?

**Galadriel**: [frown deepens]

**Me:** [slight sarcasm - okay, more than slight] Apparently, _nobody_ knows what went on. Didn't care to find out, did you? Just barged in and cut them down without a thought. Jesus, it's no wonder they're always so rude when you visit.

**Galadriel:** [indignant] You make uninformed accusations...

**Me:** And _you_ march blindly to a song that hasn't been heard in thousands of years. All I'm asking is that you listen to what it sounds like _now_. The tune may have changed.

Ah, Elves. You gotta love them because that's what Tolkien wanted you to do. Love the Elves, hate the Orcs. Evidently, I'm a rebel who indulges in contrary thinking. But because Galadriel _has_ lived for thousands of years, and _has_ seen/done it all, she's listening to me. She's indulging a moment of doubt. She's going beyond 'they hurt my baby' to 'are we somehow the cause of this?' Maybe not the _ultimate_ cause, but certainly not accusable of making an attempt to change the situation.


	8. Because I'm Not an Idiot

**Day 9 - Because I'm Not an Idiot**

**January 19, 3019 (or thereabouts)**

Bright and early this morning, I accosted my friendly 'escort' (I looked it up in my dictionary – that's what they called him, but I'm pretty damn sure he's a guard and is keeping me from getting my dirty mitts on something expensive) and after about twenty minutes of flipping through pages and struggling with conjugations, managed to ask if he or anyone with a sense of adventure could teach me how to use a weapon with an ounce of dignity. Sounded like a good idea at the time.

I am now lying in a gasping, whimpering heap in our ground-level camp, praying for death. After lunch, I'm scheduled to re-enter the gauntlet and try not to embarrass myself this time. We determined pretty early that swords will never, in a million years, be my weapon. So I get a mace. A good, sturdy stick with a heavy chunk of wood on one end (because I'm _training_, not trying to kill). Delicately (and unnecessarily) ornamented because they're Elves and they never make simple, utilitarian shit even for practice. No, it's gotta have fancy doodads all over it. So you know it's Elvish. Even from a distance. Because if it's not Elvish, it's _crap_.

But I digress. My arm hurts like you would not believe. The upper arm fat I've carefully cultivated for decades has jiggled and shaken so much, it'll foam like a carbonated beverage if I get even a tiny cut.

Fuck this, I'm too tired to write. I'm sure the rest of the day will suck balls and I'll be dead by the time the sun goes down.


	9. Lunchtime in Lothlorien

**Day Something or Other – Lunchtime in Lothlorien**

**I have no frickin' idea**

One of my favorite authors once wrote, "Time is an illusion; lunchtime doubly so." I believe this with all my heart, now that I've survived an unknown number of days getting my ass bashed in by 'well-meaning' Elves, and my brain jellied by pretty much everyone in sight who's getting tired of hearing 'that dirty Orc business.' I can now, after who knows how long, hold up my end of a conversation in Westron. Sort of. I feel like I'm listening to the American tourists speaking slooooowly and LOUDLY so their English can be better understood by the non-English-speaking natives. (Yes, I know we do that, stop being polite.)

Let this be said, though: the Middle Earth Diet is a winner. It involves no fast food, only a modest amount of deer fat if you sneak some before the 'thoughtful' butchers have discarded it, no french fries (barbarians) unless you're successful at the deer fat pilfering AND can convince someone to boil it, and lots of walking. Good god, is there ever a lot of walking. Lothlorien would benefit from the institution of mass transit. Or at least bicycles. Since Galadriel and Celeborn live in the epicenter of this place, everything is downhill from here, relatively and figuratively. My 'training' ground (I hesitate to call this 'training' – it's more like 'beat the crap out of the Orc sympathizer time') is a good thirty minute hike down from our pavillion, then a two hour drag uphill when the initial torture ends.

I would die in a stair-step challenge, folks. Let's be honest.

Aside from the suffering caused by vigorous exercise upon a middle-aged body that has seen nothing more strenuous than parallel parking before its arrival on the scene, I seem to be dropping a few pounds here and there. Just a few. I'm sure I'll find them again when I get home.

Oh bugger. My dutiful language arts teacher has just arrived. As usual, she has the look of someone who's been sentenced to particularly unsavory, and gratuitously vindictive, community service for littering.


	10. And We're Off

**Day Whatever – And We're Off**

**February 16, 3019 (the calendar works again)**

The last unknown number of days in Lothlorien have been extremely uninteresting, from a diary perspective, so I decided to just skip to the good part. Which is today. I'm nestled all snug and warm – so to speak – in the canoe with Legolas and Gimli. I had myself a taste of _lembas_ and gagged; it's like dry shortbread. And I mean _really_ dry. Nobody thought to use liquids in its making, kind of dry. I'll be dipping that shit in water whenever I have to muscle it down, I assure you.

Gift-giving session with Galadriel went well. I'll bet you're wondering what sort of delightful present the Zoop got. _Not cyanide_. Nope, she gave me a short knife easily concealed on a lady's person. Just in case one is in a bind and needs a pointy friend. She also saw to it that Longelfnameriel gave me a _real_ mace for head bashing to replace my training weapon. Shit, it's like they think I'll need to defend myself against _Orcs_. Hah. Very funny, guys. [/sarcasm]

Since the actual, real-life trip down the Anduin took over a week, I'll spare you, gentle reader, the boring descriptions of water fights between canoes, soaking wet Fellowship members glaring indignantly at the Zoop while wringing out their clothes from a random forced dunk, and the occasional Abba song sung at max decibels through the rapids. All of which I'm sure will happen. I'll let you know.


	11. Enter the Nazgûl

**Forget About the Days – Enter the Nazgûl**

**February 23, 3019**

Nothing spices up a leisurely boat ride like a rain of arrows from the bank. And I was afraid we'd start hearing banjos before too long.

Another opportunity for snagging an Orc, thwarted by setting and circumstance. I swear, you'd think this world was bent on avoiding a potentially meaningful conversation or something. Well, in a few days I'll get another chance, so I'll try to be patient.

Pippin actually asked why I didn't try to make friends with those Orcs. Not sure if he was being sarcastic or not, but I told him it didn't seem to me like they would be amenable to civil conversation after what we did, and managed to single-handedly introduce Middle Earth's first nuclear meltdown.

Word of warning: do not refer to the Fellowship's trek through Moria as a) home invasion, b) an infringement of squatter's rights, or, god forbid, c) _trespass quare clausum fregit_ in front of Gimli. I don't know half of what he sputtered and roared over the ensuing half hour, but I gathered from the few words I _did_ understand that Moria is kind of a sore point for Dwarves. So keep 'reality' as far away from that guy as you can.

On the plus side, this was my first experience with the Nazgûl. I have to say it, a hundred feet in the air, and thus respectably far away from _me_, steals quite a bit of their thunder. Frodo was the only one who freaked out, near as I could tell, but that's understandable. War wounds and all. To me, it was pretty anti-climactic, given what horrors modern film-makers are able to scare the crap out of us with.

Whatever 'dread power' a Nazgûl has for inciting a good old-fashioned pants-wetting seems to be lost on me. Plummetting gracelessly from the sky doesn't fill me with fear either. I had to suppress a giggle, imagining those boisterously cheering Orcs getting flattened by their ally when it landed.

You'll notice they went quiet after it fell. I'm sure that's no coincidence.

Anyway, it's nap time with the lads. Yet another night spent in a damp boat.

What, you thought because an Elf made it, it doesn't leak? _Pshaw._ Put a couple of non-Elven fat asses in there, it'll take on water, _trust me_.


	12. PJ is Compensating for Something

**PJ is Compensating for Something**

**February 25, 3019**

The Argonath. The Pillars of the Kings. Considerably less gigantic than the movie would have you believe. And totally not defying gravity with giant outstretched arms.

Just eyeballing it, I would put the statues at about half a football field's length in height, so on the order of 150 feet*. I'm not converting that to metric, people; I'm old. The carved details aren't even apparent until you're right up under those guys, then it's sort of Viking-esque in how it's rendered. The left-hand palms are held up, all right, but they're flush with the torso because anything else, according to my weak grasp of physics, would have caused them to plummet to the bottom of the Anduin ages ago. (Jesus, PJ.)

We've camped at Parth Galen, and everyone's getting ready for tomorrow's Big Event. Okay, _I'm_ getting ready. Can't lie, I'm a bit nervous. I've checked and rechecked my weaponry. I will be dual wielding maces for the coming onslaught: Elven mace in one hand, can of mace in the other. Aragorn has asked me a few times if I'm _sure_. If this is what I really, really want. I half expected him to launch into a Spice Girls song, but he demurred. Gimli pointed out that he had no plans to give quarter to a load of foul Orcs, and I think I surprised him when I said I didn't blame him. It wasn't easy getting it across, but I think I reassured them that I wasn't going to just walk up to a bunch of them and politely ask for their insights. No, I'm knocking one on his ass and tying him up. It worked for Nymhriel**; it'll work for me. I don't expect these guys to risk their lives for my silly quest; they've got a much more important one to worry about.

And I'm being extra nice to Boromir. It's a piece of cake, saving his doomed ass in a fic; not so easy in practice. I won't just _let_ him get pin-cushioned, but I have to be realistic. I can't prevent fate from having Her way. Boromir surviving isn't how the story goes, and the story will go on no matter what. It sucks balls, but there it is. I don't have to like it. I can rail against it all I want. Nothing will change, unless by some miracle I'm in just the right place at just the right time... with just the right amount of army surplus firepower.

I'm not expecting a miracle to happen, and I'm not going to pull some stupid stunt that gets me killed. My husband would never forgive me.

* * *

*Football Field is Zoop's standard unit of measure for anything bigger than a car.

**Nymhriel = protagonist from _The Healer's Oath_. Disclaimer: The Zoop is not going to pull the same sort of shenanigans Nymhriel did, so knock off the snickering.


	13. Any Minute Now

**Any Minute Now...**

**February 26, 3019**

Pretend I'm whispering discretely in the bushes like a wild life documentary narrator because I'm bored and I have to do **something**.

_What we're seeing here is nervous agitation now that the alpha male has wandered off to contemplate his next move. The lesser males are making small talk and occupying themselves with repetitive tasks. The pale one with his nose eternally pitched in the air is ensuring the contents of his quiver are loose and easily extracted. The short, hairy one continues to sharpen his axe blade. The alpha's inner circle is huddled together in conference. I'm afraid I can't see the alpha's rival anywh-_

_Ah, there he is. He's just glanced behind him warily and is heading after the alpha. If we're lucky, we may see their long-awaited confrontation. _

Or not. I think I'll just keep my pokey nose out of it for once. I've had to remind myself, as I stand on the precipice, that a tiny nudge in any direction could make or break this story, in spite of my earlier assertion that 'the story will go on.' If that naïve assumption is wrong, and the story is malleable due to my intrusion, I certainly don't want to be the cause of a fuck-up so large it results in the Ring falling into the wrong hands. But yes, I fully intend to lay the groundwork for civil relations between Men and Orcs. I want that. I don't know if it'll mean my own time will be in any way affected; that would require the peace to hold longer than five minutes. If all I can manage is a pause, a momentary peek into the mirror... _something_ to make the killing stop even for a heartbeat, I'll call it a victory.

Nobody wants to say it, but the Orcs, as far as we know, live pretty long lives when they don't have dark lords dicking with them. Look at the Elves: having a long life gives you the opportunity for study and invention us short-lifes can't hope to match. And guess what? The Elves are leaving. Their 'time on Arda' is drawing to a close, and they're hopping boats left and right. Their wisdom is _also_ leaving. Sure, they write stuff down, but how many Men in this world are literate? How many have access to these priceless treasures of information? How many would be better off working with an aged Orc who still remembers that _athelas_ isn't just an invasive weed?

I don't know how it's going to go, once the incoming shit hits the fan. Will I wind up with Frodo and Sam? Merry and Pippin? Aragorn and the rest? I have no idea. Tell you _one_ thing, though: I'm not –


	14. Whoops

**Whoops**

**February 26, 3019**

It was an accident, I swear. When the Orcs attacked, I thought to myself, _Hey, it's not like I'm going to be much help_. I was like, _The best place for me is the fuck outta the way_. I reasoned that I could pick around the bodies and find a live one after everything sort of blew over. Then I saw an Orc heading my way. Right where I was cowering in the bushes near the shoreline.

Not gonna lie, I was scared to death. Everyone else had gone off on a 'Where's Frodo?' hunt, so I was completely alone. Along comes a fully armored, fully armed Orc, whacking the bushes with his sword in search of halflings or possibly terrified rabbits. Well, when he got to _my_ bush, I let him have it...

... in the face with pepper spray, people. _Jesus._ I followed that up with a classic Beatles tune*, then set about securing my catch. That's when I made my big mistake.

Where I was located happened to be in a straight line between Frodo and Sam, and the boats. I wasn't even thinking clearly, what with 'oh boy oh boy oh boy!' sort of elation going through my head, because this Orc was just _gorgeous_ (in the sense that he wasn't horribly mutilated or deformed – no movie!Gothmogs here). He tore off that helmet to scream bloody murder and grind his knuckles into his eyes, then dropped like a stone when I thunked him. He looks a lot like a Man-Orc hybrid, just exactly what I would expect coming out of Isengard. I can't _wait_ til he gets over his pissy attitude and starts talking!

But I digress. The incredibly bad judgement call I made was to join Frodo on his leg of the quest. I've never even speculated on the intrusion of a wacky 10th Walker on this part of the story because I have a strong sense of the gravity involved. Like, if some showtunes-spouting dinkus toddles along with Frodo and Sam, the whole Ring-dunking event will be scrapped, Sauron will win, Gondor will fall, Rohan will collapse, darkness will engulf the land, and Arda as we know it will dissolve like metal flooring when a xenomorph bleeds on it.

So what do _I_ do? Someone oughta smack me on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. This has turned into the worst group of heroes-out-to-save-the-world that's ever been conceived by _anyone,_ except maybe Stan Lee. You've got the too-nice guy with the Dark Secret, the country bumpkin spouting good old-fashioned Hobbit sense, the shit-talking man-beast sizing us all up for snacks, and the token Bombur suffering from hot flashes.

Okay, I'm assuming this Orc will be a shit-talker when he actually says something. He has that sort of look about him. Go have a peek at the picture I drew*. Once his eyes stopped streaming and he gave up trying to break out of the bungee cords, he brooded for a bit and I snuck a sketch in when he wasn't looking. Also included is the reaction to me staring at him for so long. 'Don't fuck with me cause I fuck right back twice as hard' is written all over his face.

In my little completely-made-up headcanon, Isengarders aren't looked on too favorably by 'purebred' Orcs. I wonder if that's a 'thing,' because he is a serious mix-and-match of Orc and Man. Comparing him to the Moria Orcs, he's got all the same features, just in varying degrees of manifestation. Like his ears aren't quite as big, but definitely pointed. What I can see of them, anyway. They've been pretty thoroughly chewed up. He keeps his hair cropped _really_ short; none of that dreadlocks down to the butt sort of thing PJ tried to sell us.

Though I stripped off his armor, I want it on record that _I didn't check to see if he had normal primate body hair_. Just so we're clear. I'm not Nymhriel, I'd like to reiterate. I would also like to point out that 'Orc funk' closely resembles over-worked, under-washed Man funk. For the record.

His hands and feet are clawed. Pretty strong ones, too, and by shape they remind me of cat claws. They're black, and really stand out against his brown skin. I would put his skin shade in the neighborhood of someone who has one caucasian parent and one parent of African descent. Sort of like a cappuccino. Without the froth. But get this: _his eyes are brown_. Like a frickin' Hershey bar, kind of brown. Not black, _brown._ Not red or yellow, _B-R-O-W-N_.

Build-wise, he's more Man-like as well, again comparing to the Moria Orcs. They looked built to gallop about on all-fours, while this guy is clearly bipedal. And he doesn't hunch over, either; he stands up straight and looks down his nose at everyone. He's only a couple inches taller than me, but he still tries to look a foot taller. It's kind of amusing, really.

Anyway, we're in the Emyn Muil, arguably the harshest country in Middle Earth. Sharp stones and rockfalls and all manner of bleakness. Where ever it was that PJ found to film these scenes was spot on. Apart from being old and wearing bifocals, I lost quite a bit of my grace and sense of balance with the births of my children – yes, sunshine, brain cells died in that exchange – so I am having a really hard time of it out here. Practically crawling on all fours. Mr. Pissy, so named until he sees fit to provide another, is in worse shape because his hands are tied behind his back (I may have an insanely large soft spot for Orcs, but I'm not an idiot) and he's rather resistant to accompanying us on our grand adventure. Not all that keen on sight-seeing in Mordor, for some reason.

I tried cheering him up by pointing out that, 'Hey, these are halflings. You sort of accomplished your mission, a tiny bit.' He wasn't amused. In fact, he has 'stink eye' down to a science.

When he doesn't realize I'm watching him out of the corner of my eye, he's staring at nothing and breathing a little more rapidly than seems normal. A bit like a cornered animal. I hope I can get through to him before he springs. For now, I'd better get some sleep. We're sharing watches, and it'll be my turn in a few hours. I'm doing my best a) not to fuck up the entire mission, and b) to contribute at least _something_. Frodo needs to sleep more than any of us.

Oh, as an aside: _I see you, Gollum. Turn the fucking lamp off behind your eyes or don't poke your head up under the moon, for crying out loud. Dumbass._

* * *

* "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"

** Linked on my profile! Enjoy! :D Note that the picture gives the Orc's name, but at this point in the story, I don't know it yet. ;)


	15. The Way to an Orc's Heart

**The Way to an Orc's Heart**

**February 27, 3019**

I'm rather predictable these days. In a stressful situation, or with people I don't know very well, I resort to my sense of humor to get me out of it. Even though the Emyn Muil area is a land bereft of anything even remotely amusing, I have the handy straight man – er, Orc – to bounce my best bits off of. Not being one to deprive _anyone_ of my wit, I've been laboring in Westron so the boys are likewise entertained.

For the record, they're not. We've taken a breather on the same rock at least twice today. I suspect we'll be sitting on it again tomorrow. Tempers are getting a wee bit frayed.

Last night I fussed over everyone a bit. Made sure Frodo was snug and warm in his blanket. Offered to tuck in the Orc and received a silent but deadly rebuff (he snapped at my hand, in case you're curious). Sam got the treatment when I relieved his watch. Since I'm not much use otherwise, I'll be the den mother for this little troop of cub scouts. Why not?

When we got moving this morning, breakfast was pretty dull and quiet. Everyone but me was pouting about something (I'm sure my time will come – I just remembered there's a bus-sized spider event coming up – why the hell didn't I sign on for Aragorn's Charity Fun Run instead?).

Because Mr. Pissy hasn't earned the right to have his hands released yet, his _toilette_ is awkwardly managed. _Not by me_, I'd like to point out. I let boys take care of boy things. The important thing we covered, though, was rations. Between me and the Hobbits, we are _buried_ in _lembas_. Jesus. I must be carrying twenty pounds of it myself. Our new friend, however, left the house with barely a nibble in his haversack. A few strips of dried meat, origin unknown. I lack the courage to ask. So I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone: 1) include him in our exclusive little dinner club, and 2) break the ice.

**Me:** You're going to run out of your own rations pretty soon. I'm afraid we only have this to give you. [show him leaf-wrapped brick]

**Orc:** [stink-eye*] What is it?

**Me:** Well, about the only way I can describe it is, it's ass in wafer form.

**Orc:** [blink] [frown] What?

**Me:** Imagine the taste of ass, injected into a block of hard, dry, gritty, flat, cracker-like bread. That's what this tastes like.

**Orc:** [stunned] Ass. It tastes... like ass.

**Me:** Yes. Elves made it.

**Orc:** [sarcastic] And you offer it to me.

**Me:** It's the least I can do. If you're starving, and you're willing to eat ass, we've got plenty. Help yourself.

I swear to god, he looked away so I wouldn't see the corners of his mouth twitch. He has an iron will, this kid. But I think I'm softening him up. By the time we get back to this spot on our next aimless circuit, I'm sure he'll be spilling his life story.

* * *

* stink-eye = As I mentioned, he's got this down to a science. He narrows his eyes so they damn near disappear under his brow ridge, which is pulled down like a tent with the center pole taken out. He curls his upper lip, baring his teeth and flaring his nostrils. Then he broadens and flattens his lower lip so his canines are fully exposed. This is obviously not his 'come hither' look. More like his 'get the fuck away from me or I'll bite your face' look.


	16. When is an Uruk Not an Uruk?

**When is an Uruk Not an Uruk?**

**February 28, 3019**

Here's something interesting. You know, besides the breathtakingly boring landscape we are continuing to circle aimlessly. I'm sure there's an end to it somewhere; Tolkien said there was, so there must be. Apart from that, I got a tiny bit more out of the Orc. Not his name, though. I will have to continue referring to him as Mr. Pissy. He doesn't much appreciate that appellation, and has likely added it to the list of reasons why he should kill me as soon as his hands are free. Right under pepper spray to the face, bonk on the head, marching in his skivvies, occasional head-over-heels tumble down a slope because he damn well refused to let me hold his elbow for balance so it's _not my fault_, and the junk handling. I'm not on Sam's Christmas card list for that last one, either.

Hey, Frodo's already carrying one nasty thing around 24/7. Sam can do his part for the thirty seconds it takes to hold an Orc's willy. Sheesh. At least he hasn't expressed an interest in doing anything _else_. It could be worse.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. This morning's amazing revelation came after Mr. Pissy muttered to me that we were being followed. For a moment, I thought that was pretty cool, warning us about Gollum. Like he had our best interests at heart. Warming to us and all. _No._ He pretty much popped my 'yay' balloon when he pointed out that he was only telling me about it so _his_ throat wouldn't get cut when _mine_ did. Gee. How super sweet and thoughtful of you. Then he asked what must have been a seriously burning question for him. And about damn time, too.

**Orc**: What do you want with me?

**Me**: [perks up] I'm glad you asked. I was hoping you would.

**Orc**: [stink-eye]

**Me**: [shrug] Well, information, mostly.

**Orc**: [double-barreled stink-eye] I will tell you _nothing._

**Me**: I kind of figured that. FYI, it's not Saruman's strategies or military secrets I'm interested in. I'm not looking for your understanding of his plans, or what you think of the drapes he hangs in his office. I don't care about Saruman at all.

**Orc**: [slight, _ever so slight_ confusion] What do you want, then? I'll tell you nothing of Mordor either.

**Me**: I wouldn't expect you to. I'd be surprised if you'd even been there, being as you're from Isengard...

**Orc**: [nuclear detonation level stink-eye] _I am not 'from' Isengard_.

**Me**: [o-face] I see. Um... I thought... you marched out of Isengard.

**Orc**: [calming slightly] I did.

**Me**: Oh. Okay. Um... but... you weren't... _born_ there? Is that what you mean?

**Orc**: [low-level stink-eye] [commences silent treatment]

**Me**: Can you at least tell me your name?

**Orc**: [slightly higher intensity stink-eye]

**Me**: Ah. Okay. Um... basically, I'm interested in you. Just... consider telling me that much, okay?

**Orc**: [I might as well not be on the same planet with him]

Not exactly a warm and friendly fellow. I am now curious as all hell. If he wasn't born _inside_ Isengard, where did he come from? I mean, shit, people, _look at him_. There is so much Man in him it's not funny. Okay, there's a shit-ton of Orc too, more than would allow him to pass as a Man without help. Such as a hood, or Cousin It's hairdo. I'm just baffled; was he the product of a botched rape-kill-eat attempt during a raid? Did his mom trip and fall into a vat of Orc spunk? What the hell happened?

By my best guess, which isn't easy because he has a pretty rugged face that's marred by a few long scars that trigger my mom-response (sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth; strong urge to fetch band-aids and bacitrecin; intense desire to buy him a cuddly stuffed animal - yes, I would totally take him to Build a Bear Workshop), I would put his age around forty. Give or take a decade. But he has a really hard look about him; some of his expressions seem to say, 'I've seen some shit in my life, and if you ask me about any of it, I'll unleash it on your head.' Basically, he could be younger than he looks. I'm just not sure.

Well, night's getting on, and I want to make my boys comfortable. Sam's got first watch again. I don't think he's too keen on the Orc, but since we've had no trouble from him, grumbling has been confined to those 'bonding' moments at the communal urinal. I'm sure Sam'll have plenty to say when Gollum arrives. The Orc doesn't know what Frodo's carrying, after all, so he's not paying either Hobbit as much glowering attention as he's blessing me with. I'm not sure if knowledge about our mission would change his behavior, and I'm not brave enough to find out.


	17. Roll That Beautiful Bean Footage

**Roll That Beautiful Bean Footage**

**February 29, 3019**

It was bound to happen sooner or later. When cornered by direct questioning, the Zoop breaks like post-beans-consumption wind. And like all things, the dispensation of spoilers has consequences.

We're taking a moment to huddle in a bedraggled bunch among the rocks until this storm breaks because when you're already lost and miserable, it's one of Nature's Laws that you get rained on as well. It's also a Zoop Law that childish behavior tends to cause a dispensation of Zoop Snark©. While we were 'relaxing,' Frodo asked The Question That Set Off the Bomb:

**Frodo:** Zoop*... can you tell us, if you are able... what has become of our cousins? And the others?

**Me:** Um... I'm not sure I should tell you.

**Frodo:** I recall what you said, that... if we knew what would befall us, we might seek to change it, and so lead us to ruin, but... surely we are far enough from our friends that... knowing their fate... We surely can't do them harm from here, can we?

**Me:** Well, _technically_... Um... [waffling and wavering] I really shouldn't...

**Sam**: Will we see them again? And not 'at the end of all things,' if you catch my meaning.

**Me**: [weak will breaking down] Okay... yes, you'll see them again.

**Frodo**: [pressing] All of them?

**Me**: [hemming] [hawing] Mostly.

**Frodo:** Merry and Pippin?

**Me**: [miserable nodding]

**Frodo**: [sigh] [nod] Thank you.

**Sam**: [relieved] So the Orcs didn't get them. Good.

**Me**: [uncomfortable glance toward _our_ Orc]

**Sam**: [suspicious] Or did they?

**Me:** [embarrassed] Weeellll...

**Frodo:** [alarmed] Did they?

**Orc:** [suspicious stink-eye]

**Sam**: If those dirty Orcs so much as laid a finger on them...

**Orc**: [threatening growl]

**Sam:** Now don't you go getting yourself worked up. They're our _kin_, not that such a thing has any meaning for _your_ like...

**Orc:** [earth-shattering, completely full of piss-and-vinegar roar] [lurches awkwardly at Sam]

**Me:** [stepping in because I'm sitting between them] Hey! Settle down or I'm putting you both in a time out! Sam, that was completely rude. You apologize right now.

**Sam:** [grumbling] Sorry.

**Me**: [to Orc] You calm the hell down. This is _exactly_ what I'm trying to do: help people like Sam understand people like you. But if you don't _tell_ us anything, we're going to keep thinking the same stupid things about your people. So knock off the defensive posturing and _talk to us_, all right? _Jesus._

**Orc:** [snarling] _Fuck_ you.

**Me:** [sarcasm] Oh, that's constructive. Thanks for that. You know something? That entire band of yours that attacked us? _They're dead_. That's right. All of them. That's what you get for pissing across Rohan in the open. _Twice_.

**Orc:** [startled] [rallies] Doesn't matter. There are thousands...

**Me**: [Zoop Snark©] All of whom will be dead in a matter of days. You come after Hobbits, you pay the price.

**Orc**: [floored, flummoxed, and flabbergasted]

**Frodo:** Is this true? The Orcs came after _us_? Is that what you are saying?

**Me:** [deflate] [realize the whoops] Well... _you_, actually. 'Halflings' in general, but... you.

**Sam:** [math wiz] They got a hold of Merry and Pippin, instead of us.

**Me:** [lame, helpless shrug] That's basically... yes, they did.

**Frodo**: Oh no. [shuts eyes] [bows head]

**Me:** [encouraging] It's okay, though. By now, they're free. None the worse for wear, in fact. [concedes] Okay, a little roughed up, but otherwise fine.

**Frodo:** [encouraged] So they are safe?

**Me**: Yeah.

**Orc:** [strained] How do you know these things?

**Sam**: [filterless boob] She's from the future or somesuch. Knows what all will happen.

**Me**: [glares at Sam] [sarcasm] Nicely done.

**Orc:** [tight jaw clench] You say... all... all... thousands of Orcs... dead. Isengard...

**Me:** [snark goes bye-bye] [nod] Merry and Pippin – the other Halflings with us – escaped and... ran into... a tree.

**Sam:** [confused] What?

**Me**: [sigh] [resigned] Remember what Merry told you about the Old Forest? How the trees seemed to move around? They found a mover.

**Frodo:** [startled] [slightly freaked out] How do you know that?

**Me:** Because you told me. In here. [digs out copy of LOTR] You did what Bilbo did, and wrote down your adventures. I know what will happen because _you told me_.

**Frodo:** [second math wiz reveals himself] So... I, at least, will live. [not sure he likes that conclusion]

**Me:** [well, shit] Yeah. Oh, what the hell, _all four of you_ will live. Merry and Pippin are the ones who tell you all about the fun, exciting time the others are having while you're off in boring old Mordor.

**Frodo:** [gasping for breath] [slight smile] That is a relief.

**Sam:** It sure is. [frowns] [nods toward Orc] What about him? What's going to happen to him? Begging your pardon, but... I'm sure you weren't supposed to be here, and... well... now _he_ is...

**Me:** [how the hell do I get into these pickles?] That just makes things more interesting. As for him, I will do whatever it takes to keep him alive. Understand? It's my fault he's here. He didn't ask for this. He's my responsibility, and I take those pretty damn seriously.

**Frodo:** I am certain Sam isn't suggesting we slay him...

**Sam:** Seems to me you went and saved him from getting killed in any case.

**Me:** [shrugs] Well, _technically..._

**Orc:** Release me.

**Me:** [startled] What?

**Orc:** [grits teeth] Let me go.

**Me:** [gently] You can't stop what's going to happen. [pause] [delicately] Do you... have... family in Isengard?

**Orc:** [stiffens] [hesitates] I don't know.

**Me:** [nods] I guess... Saruman didn't really... tell you things like... who your parents were, and likely...

**Orc:** [flares hotly] [MASSIVE stink-eye] _I know who my parents are_.

**Me:** [struggling to get foot out of mouth] Oh. So... why did you say... you didn't know if you had family in Isengard?

**Orc:** [commences silent treatment]

**Me:** [accepts defeat... for now] It's okay. Sorry, I just... I want to know about your life.

**Orc**: [hits the pause button on silent treatment] So you can use it against me?

**Me**: [shakes head] No. So I can understand you. You as an individual, a person. You as an Orc. You as an Orc who... lived in Isengard. You have inside you a great story that nobody will ever hear, because right now, nobody thinks they should care. _I_ care. I want others to realize _they_ should care, too.

**Orc:** [resumes silent treatment] [but with uncertain expression]

Well, we're about out of time, folks. The weather has broken a bit and Sam's itching to put his Elven rope to good use. I'm going to have to untie the Orc for our descent from the Emyn Muil. I want to believe he'll stay with us, and not just so he can kill us, so wish me luck. Either I've convinced him that there's nothing for him to go 'home' to, or that he's got nothing left to lose. I'll let you know which way it goes.

* * *

* Yes, they all call me Zoop. It's utterly precious.


	18. Bitter, Obsessed Old Bastards Arrive

**Bitter, Obsessed Old Bastards Arrive Precisely When They Mean To**

**Same Damn Day**

We managed to get down the cliff with only minor rope burns (in everyone else's case – my hands are in bandage mittens), but now we're halted by a fissure too dark to navigate with only a sliver of a moon shining. While the Hobbits make small talk, allow me to report on the condition of my Orc friend.

Scowling and perpetually silent right next to me. Hands free and everything, because I felt really shitty about tying him back up after he agreed not to kill us if I let him climb down on his own, as opposed to getting lowered like cargo. And for the record, he didn't so much as flinch when holding the Elven rope. I'm pretty sure that means Gollum's a drama queen.

As an aside, Gollum hasn't shown up yet, but I'm sure he isn't far. Probably still trying to work out the WTF over the Orc we're chummy with.

Anyway, more importantly, I got a crap-ton more out of him. Including his name, which is Ufkoth. That is, that's what it would be in Black Speech. When he actually says it, it comes out 'fear claw' in my ears. Thank you, annoying god damned internal translator.

Before I set him loose, though, I had a lengthy conversation with him that went something like this:

**Me:** I have a proposition for you.

**Orc:** Not interested.

**Me:** Hear me out. You've probably figured out that we need to get down this cliff, and you're not going to get far with your hands tied. So I propose this: I'll untie you, and you can climb down with us.

**Orc:** [hostile] Do I have a choice?

**Me**: As a matter of fact, you do. I confess, I'm very curious about you, but I don't want to hold you against your will. The tying up business was for our protection. If you want to leave, I won't stop you. But I want you to consider something.

**Orc:** [suspicious] What?

**Me:** Believe it or not, you're safer with us.

**Orc:** [scoffing grunt]

**Me:** No, really. You run across Rohan to get back to Isengard _now_, and you won't make it. Rohan's on a war footing; anything that moves across those plains is being watched. Unless you know that place like the back of your hand, you won't go unnoticed. Come with us, and I think I can guarantee that _if_ you see things through to the end – there and back again, as it were – there will be a place for you.

**Orc:** [sneer] Yes, a cold, dark place with chains. I have heard this promise before.

**Me:** _No,_ I... wait, what?

**Orc:** [sneer] 'Join me. My enemies are _your_ enemies. Fight them for me, and you shall have a share of the spoils. A place to call your own.' [spit] _Lies._

**Me:** [dumbfounded] Uh... Who...?

**Orc:** [stink-eye] [silent treatment]

**Me**: [guessing] Um... did Saruman tell you that?

**Orc**: [seething]

**Me:** [deep breath] Okay, this isn't getting us anywhere. Let's try again. I'll just come right out and say it: I'm hoping to start the ball rolling on peaceful coexistence between Men and Orcs.

**Orc:** [WTF]

**Me**: I know, it sounds pretty far-fetched. [probing] I mean... that sort of thing doesn't ever happen, does it?

**Orc:** You know _nothing._

**Me:** You're right, I don't. Why don't you tell me? Why did Saruman seek out your clan?

**Orc:** [anger building] We ate our vengeance for too many years. It was _owed_. My clan, blinded by promises, accepted his terms and led us to Isengard.

**Me:** [carefully] Evidently, these promises weren't kept.

**Orc:** [stink-eye] [sarcasm] _No_. They were not.

**Me:** [nod] [concede] And therefore, you assume _my_ promise is also a lie.

**Orc**: [sneer] Isn't it?

**Me**: [withering] Well now, you know I'm going to say, 'No, of course not!' Look, believe me or not, trust me or not, all I can do is keep on telling you...* Oh crap, now I feel like I should burst into song.

**Orc:** [startled] What?

**Me:** [inspired] Hold it! Don't move! Stay right as you are. [scrambles for sketchbook and pencil]

_**10-15 MINUTE MAD SKETCHING INTERLUDE IN THE DARK**_

**Me:** [beaming] There. What do you think? [show picture to Orc] **

**Orc**: [stunned speechless]

**Me:** [falter] Okay, I'm not _great_, but... that's what I see when I look at you. And look, here's the first one I drew. [show other picture]

**Orc:** [uncertain] This... is me?

**Me:** [eager nod] Yeah. I don't see a monster or an animal. I see a person. A person who's had some rough times. We've all had them. I mean, god. Look at Frodo over here. That poor guy got stabbed by a Ringwraith. You think _you've_ had a bad day.

**Orc:** [shoots 'no fucking way' look at Frodo]

**Frodo:** [nods] It's true. I have quite an ugly scar, in fact.

**Me:** And maybe, another time, we'll all disrobe and compare scars, but for now, let's just take his word for it, shall we?

**Orc:** [looks from Frodo to me and back] You are... a Halfling?

**Frodo:** Well, we call ourselves Hobbits, but some say Halfling, yes.

**Me:** [wry smile] Tougher than they look. Some of them are pretty good at stirring up trouble, too. [wink at Frodo]

**Orc:** [deep frown] How is it – [looks Frodo and Sam over] – someone like you can defeat Saruman?

**Me:** [fake throat clearing] _Spoilers_.

**Frodo:** I do not know. [smiles at me] Yet given what became of our adventure in Moria, I suspect Pippin is involved somehow.

**Me**: [mutter] You got that right.

**Frodo**: [curious] Orc, you say you were with a clan.

**Orc**: [suspicious] Yes.

**Frodo:** [slips on his lineage-obsessed Hobbit hat] Had you any brothers or sisters?

**Orc:** [wary stink-eye] Four and three.

**Me:** [surprised] Wow. Big family.

**Orc**: [looks away]

**Me**: [gently] I'm really sorry about... I swear, if I'd known... Not that I could've done much, but... I would've tried.

**Orc:** [glaring] [clenched jaw] I have not seen anyone from my clan for ten years.

**Me**: [stunned] Oh. So... you really _don't_ know if... [nod] Okay. I'm going out on a limb here, and guessing that Saruman did that. [swift math] It would be stupid to call you all there, then kill you. So... he must have... separated you? Spread you out? Is that what he did?

**Orc:** [closes eyes] [looks away]

**Me**: That asshole. Still out on that limb, I'll venture to guess you don't much like him, do you?

**Orc**: [grimace] [growl] I hate him.

**Me:** Then help us. Maybe we can't do anything to Saruman from here, but we _can_ stick it to his boss.

**Orc:** [WTF]

**Sam:** [nod] Right enough. That is what we're about. We're going all the way to Mordor to...

**Me**: [clears throat _really_ loudly] [shoots 'shut the fuck up' look at Sam] [to Orc] Are you with us? We poke the Eye hard enough, and Saruman'll feel it clear across Rohan.

**Orc:** [wavering] And you... you will make a place for me.

**Me:** Not just you. _All_ Orcs, and Orc-kind. So clans – _families_ – aren't torn apart ever again.

**Frodo:** [softly] What is your name?

**Orc**: [wary] [eyes darting to each of us]

**Me**: [innocently] We could call you 'Dude' if you like. Can you bowl?

**Orc:** [WTF look to me] [to Frodo] Ufkoth.

Long story short (too late), he agreed to come with us thanks to brave Frodo of the Nine Plus One Fingers. While no Vanna White-esque presentation of the Ring was made, Frodo managed to convey our basic purpose without giving too much away, but enough for Ufkoth to believe we stood a chance in hell at succeeding. So he knows we're going to Mordor, we're going to inflict some tactical damage, and it's unlikely we'll be noticed before it's too late because there are only a few of us, as opposed to a giant frickin' army. Apparently, the idea of stealthy, back door approaches is very familiar to him.

I will definitely be coming after Ufkoth with multiple follow-up questions about all the low-hanging fruit he exposed during that exchange, trust me. Just the idea of a _clan_ made up of the kind of people who could produce an Orc/Man hybrid... and he had tons of siblings, too!

But honestly, while part of me is just giddy with all these lovely discoveries, I'm looking at his face right now and just agonizing for him. He has no idea where his family is, if they're still in Isengard, if they're still _alive_. Even _before_ now, he didn't know for sure. If it was remotely safe to do so, and it would do a bit of good, I'd run with him all the way back to Isengard and put a stop to Treebeard's terra-forming project. Or at least urge a more... surgical approach.

Ah hell, guess whose skinny ass just got spotted? Ooo, let's all hide, then when he skulks closer, we can jump out and yell, 'Surprise!' I think I've got a taser somewhere in my bag...

* * *

* Honestly, do I have to give you the rest? It's "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" by Meatloaf. ;)

** On my profile, one WTF look comin' right up!


	19. And Then Zoop Broke the Plot

**And Then Zoop Broke the Plot**

**February 30, 3019 (I have no control over these dates, people)**

Well, _fuck_. I can't assign this massive screw-up to anyone but me, but I'll be damned if I'm letting posterity imply ulterior motives or premeditated intent on my part.

It all happened so fast: the Hobbits got the drop on Gollum just like it says in the book, and Sam wound up in dire straits with me and Frodo trying to pry the little fucker off him. Then in comes Ufkoth. I had no idea he'd take our side, even after our lovely heart-to-heart last night. He jumped in, and then Gollum was all over _him_.

Note to self: Do _not_ piss off Ufkoth. I haven't seen a hand-to-hand fight this disturbing since _Saving Private Ryan_.

Sam couldn't get his shit together because he was trying to breathe again, and Frodo's sword got knocked out of his hands by the flailing combatants, so he ran off scrambling for weapons. All I had was a mace, which would undoubtedly pull all kinds of aggro I couldn't possibly repel, so that left the pepper spray. Which I used. On _Gollum_, in case you're wondering. Ufkoth was suffering from 'I just underestimated how determined that Ring can make a person' syndrome, and starting to come out on the bad side of the fight. I couldn't stand there and do nothing, dammit. So I let Gollum have it right in the face.

Which gave Ufkoth exactly the opportunity he needed.

Back when I was a wee teenager lass, I vividly recall knocking a tennis ball against the side of our house with a racket, over and over again. I lived out in the countryside, and that was the extent of my entertainment that day (this was pre-internet, folks – practically the dark ages). One bounce after another, aiming high so I wouldn't hit the window in the center.

You can guess what happened: I hit the window. I spun around, wanting to believe that by doing so, _the window didn't actually break_. As if I could _un_break it by not _looking_ at it.

That doesn't work with glass _or_ necks.

As you can imagine, this leaves me in a rather awkward position. Granted, we'll be spared betrayal and 'fat Hobbit' comments and, hopefully, really big spiders, but it could also throw us off completely, date-wise. We _have_ to hit the mountain at a time when the eagles can come pick us up afterwards. But if you think I'm leading this crew through the damned Dead Marshes for no frickin' reason, you're high.

Thank the gods I didn't leave the house without Karen Wynn Fonstad*, because Frodo's guide into Mordor just gained two hundred pounds.

* * *

* Karen Wynn Fonstad, author and artist of "The Atlas of Middle-Earth"


	20. There's No Such Thing as a Spoiler

**Under the Circumstances, There's No Such Thing as a Spoiler**

**Same damn day**

So I gave it some thought while Sam and Frodo built a cairn over the poor bastard, and it looks like I'm going to have to tackle this Gollum-less adventure like I would in my real life day job: Treat it like a high-profile project. I am, after all, an analyst. Figuring out how to alter computer systems and business processes to accommodate major functionality changes is what I do for a living. Like any new endeavor, the first step is a charter.

* * *

**DRAFT CHARTER FOR PROJECT "SAVE MIDDLE EARTH"**

**Problem Statement:**

The primary issue we are facing is the continued and growing threat to successful business operations in Arda (a.k.a. Middle Earth), as represented by the corporate entity known as Sauron, LLC (hereafter referred to as The Eye). This conglomerate has shown a strong tendency toward hostile takeover, using fear tactics and illegal methods of coercion. The Eye has directed its latest efforts towards the Gondor Company, Incorporated, via the home office at Minas Tirith, as the next acquisition in its bid for industry dominance.

Due to the high level of secrecy required for the successful execution of this project, all correspondence must be identified as Confidential.

**Project Objectives:**

1) Thwart the Eye's attempted acquisition of Gondor Company, Incorporated.

2) Initiate corporate dissolution and disperse all assets currently in the Eye's possession, or connected to the Eye in any way.

**Key Stakeholders:**

Impacted parties include, but are not limited to: the 'Free Peoples' of Arda, constituting Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Men; the flora and fauna of Arda, including Ents and other tree-shepherding folk; and Orc-kind, whether descended from or biologically related to the Free Peoples.

**Scope of This Project:**

_**In Scope:**_

_1) Infiltrate Mordor by any means available_

_2) Navigate to Orodruin (a.k.a. Mount Doom)_

_3) Liquidate Primary Asset (a.k.a. The One Ring)_

_4) Assemble at rendezvous point_

_5) Air-lift out of Mordor_

_**Out of Scope:**_

_1) Confront Shelob, spawn of Ungoliant, in her lair_

_2) Needlessly kill, or allow to be killed, any more canon characters_

_3) Allow any member of the project team to fall into the Crack of Doom_

_4) Allow Frodo to lose a finger, even for poetic purposes_

**Assumptions/Constraints/Dependencies:**

_Assumption:_ Modern maps of a fictional world are 100% accurate.

_Assumption:_ All members of the project team are dedicated resources (i.e. there are no parallel projects in flight that will compromise their performance, availability, or loyalty).

_Assumption:_ The successful completion of this project will initiate a chain reaction that will accomplish the overall project objectives.

_Constraint:_ The project manager (a.k.a. PM) assigned to this project is an arachnophobe.

_Dependency:_ A subject matter expert (a.k.a. SME) is required to assist in satisfying in-scope item #1.

**Key Risks:**

If a satisfactory and low-risk means of accomplishing in-scope item #1 is not found, a change request must be submitted and standard change management protocols followed in order to move out-of-scope item #1 into scope. It must be noted that the PM is unlikely to sign off on this change request except under duress. (Refer to Constraints.)

An essential member of the project team is expected to resist in-scope item #3. This individual's resistance will increase the closer we get to the target implementation date. A mitigation strategy must be defined very soon to manage this risk before it is realized and becomes an issue.

One member of the project team is a new hire and must be ramped up on the project objectives. It is unknown at this time if he will remain with the project following full disclosure. Recommendation: Omit references to in-scope item #3 until such time as the questionable team member has fully committed to the project. Mitigation: If the team member opts to leave the project, he is to be restrained and compelled to accompany the team until such time as a suitable facility is found to hold him. Though he does not fall under the jurisdiction of out-of-scope item #2, he is nevertheless a person.

**Roles and Responsibilities:**

_**Allocated Project Team Members:**_

Frodo Baggins (a.k.a Ringbearer) – Responsible for carrying the Primary Asset to the target location and performing in-scope item #3.

Samwise Gamgee (a.k.a. Gardener) – Responsible for carrying the Ringbearer in the event that he is immobilized. Designated as Assistant Ringbearer should the need for a substitute arise.

Ufkoth (a.k.a. Bewildered Participant) – Responsible for not hindering the execution of the project objectives in any way.

Zoop (a.k.a. Reluctant Project Manager) – Responsible for ensuring the successful completion of the project and satisfaction of all success criteria by the target implementation date.

_**External Team Members Needed:**_

Subject Matter Expert: Experienced Ranger familiar with the terrain in the mountainous region of Ithilien and the Ephel Dúath to assist with in-scope item #1. Recommendation: Faramir son of Denethor II. (Note key milestones for Faramir's assumed whereabouts.) (Critical)

Subject Matter Expert: Experienced local guide to assist with in-scope item #2. Recommendation: TBD. (Optional)

Air Transport Providers: Eagles under the command of Gwaihir, guided by Gandalf the White to assist with in-scope item #5. (Critical)

**Target Implementation Date: **

March 25, 3019

**Key Milestones:**

March 1, 3019 – Faramir leaves Minas Tirith for Ithilien

March 7, 3019 – Original date of meeting with Faramir near Henneth Annûn

March 10, 3019 – Dawnless Day; Faramir returns to Minas Tirith

March 15, 3019 – Battle of Pelennor Fields

March 24, 3019 – Forces of the West camp on the Desolation of the Morannon

**Critical Success Criteria:**

1) Project Team Members Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee survive

2) Primary Asset is liquidated

3) The Eye is thwarted

4) Surviving Project Team Members are retrieved from rendezvous point

* * *

I think this oughta do it. I've scheduled a team meeting to review the charter and agree on the scope. While I'm disappointed in the facilities – no overhead projector _or_ flip charts – I'm fairly confident that the document speaks for itself. Wish me luck; it's always harder to win over the stakeholders when you don't have a basket of chocolate on hand.


	21. Cats and Dogs Living Together

**Cats and Dogs Living Together, But No Mass Hysteria**

**March 1, 3019**

It sucks all to hell, finding out that between you and your goal is a huge swamp full of dead people, and it'll be really damned difficult to avoid it. The nearest I can manage is a southerly route in hopes of skirting the western edge, then cutting eastward across what the map says is a sort of dry stretch between two monstrous piles of marshland.

The charter review meeting last evening had a mixed reception. I didn't call particular attention to the Ring, for obvious reasons, and glossed over the risks in general terms. Okay, I flat out didn't mention any of them. I'm taking the stance that the risks in this endeavor are mine to manage. I can only hope Ufkoth doesn't go all Boromir on us. He's pretty big.

Speaking of Ufkoth, I dragged some stunningly juicy tidbits out of him. Or he was just pissed enough to dish. Coincidentally, about dishes, in the food preference sense. You see, he ate his last meat ration this morning, and Sam made a comment:

**Sam**: If you're still hungry, there's _lembas_.

**Ufkoth**: [stink-eye] No. I am not hungry enough to eat _ass_. [shoots me a hostile look]

**Me**: [mild 'fuck you' glance]

**Sam**: [huffs] It's not _that_ bad. A sight better than what you've got, I'll warrant.

**Ufkoth**: [sneer] I prefer meat.

**Sam**: Well, you won't be getting any more of_ that_ sort of meat, so you'd better get used...

**Ufkoth**: [royally pissed] [holds up shriveled meat strip] What do you think this is?

**Sam**: [sassy] I'd rather not say.

**Me**: [mom] All right, that's enough. Let it go, Sam. I think he grasps that eating man-flesh isn't an acceptable practice while he's...

**Ufkoth**: [colossally fucking pissed] [nuclear detonation imminent] [3...] _**My**__ clan did not eat it! We __**never**__ ate it!_

**Sam/Frodo/Me**: [stunned]

**Me**: [timidly] [calming] Okay. It's just that... by all accounts, Saruman fed you...

**Ufkoth**: [2...] _I don't fucking eat man-flesh! I have __**never**__ eaten man-flesh!_

**Sam/Frodo**: [scooting back]

**Me**: [stupidly] But... you _could_ have...

**Ufkoth**: [1...] _He fed his __**Uruk-hai**__ man-flesh! He made __**them**__ hunger for it!_

**Me**: [palming pepper spray can] Are you saying... you're not... Uruk-hai?

**Ufkoth**: [explodes] _**I... AM NOT... URUK-HAI!**_

[lengthy pause] [watch Ufkoth gasp, twitch, and quiver from minimum safe distance]

_***** PAUSE FOR COMMERCIAL BREAK *****_

**Me**: [quietly] What are you, then? By _your_ definition?

**Ufkoth**: [gathers shit] [calms self] [perhaps engages internal debate]

**Frodo**: [calming] You are welcome to share our rations. And perhaps if we find...

**Sam**: [joining in] Coneys. We're bound to come across'em this time of year. Poking their noses out to have a sniff of the air. That'll be a nice change once in awhile, won't it?

**Me**: [awkward] Ufkoth. [he darts a wary look at me] Tell us about yourself. Who you are. Where you came from. All we have are guesses. I swear, we're not trying to poke fun at you or piss you off. We've got a long road ahead of us; we need to come together. Can you do that?

**Ufkoth**: [growl] I did not ask for this.

**Me**: [nods] [gently] I know.

**Ufkoth**: [hesitates] I am an _Orc._

**Me**: [delicately] Don't take this the wrong way, but... what were your parents?

**Ufkoth**: [narrows eyes] [curls lip] My da was a Man; mum was an Orc.

**Me**: [uncertain] So... what are the Uruk-hai made of?

**Ufkoth**: [sneer] Blood and shit.

**Me**: [wry] You're not too fond of them, are you?

**Ufkoth**: [snort] Arrogant pigs. They are made the same way I was: Orc and Man. Because I was not made _in_ Isengard, I was less than they.

**Me**: [fascinated] Did Saruman treat you differently, or...?

**Ufkoth**: [growl] [distasteful hiss] Saruman. He knows nothing of Orcs. He thinks we are all the same. He called me Uruk-hai; his 'pets' did not. [pause] [_very_ aggressive snarl] I do _not_ eat the flesh of Men.

**Me**: Okay. That's a relief. But... I'm curious...

**Ufkoth**: [snarl] What now?

**Me**: Your grandparents. What were they?

**Ufkoth**: [low-grade stink-eye] My da's father was an Orc; his mum was Mannish. My mum's parents were both Orcs.

**Me**: [starting to get a picture] So... this clan of yours... Orcs and Men living together... in relative peace? Enough to... intermarry?

**Ufkoth**: [snarl] Yes.

**Me**: [stunned] Wow. [turn to Hobbits] Oh my god, guys. This... this is a beautiful thing, right here. Do you understand what he's saying?

**Frodo**: [math whiz] Men and Orcs have learned to live with one another.

**Me**: Yeah. Here I was thinking it was a completely foreign concept, unknown in this world. But... [gesture at Ufkoth] _look at him_. He's the end result of a couple of _generations_ of Men and Orcs living together. _In peace_, no less. You don't call yourself a 'clan' if half the members are assholes. It's all for one and one for all.

**Sam**: [ever the skeptic] What sort of Men, though? The kind who're no better'n they should be?

**Ufkoth**: [growl] [stink-eye level increasing]

**Me**: [emergency subject change] I think we should probably look for a place to camp, you think?

Not gonna lie, totally excited about these bits and pieces Ufkoth drops when harassed. Now I'm wondering if the reason why Saruman contacted his clan in particular was because the 'ancient method of Orc breeding' was a natural occurrence there, and they'd already found that perfect balance of Mannish and Orcish traits the old bastard was looking for. In which case, the 'native Isengarders' oughta shut the fuck up, because the original blueprint didn't come from Isengard.

Oh shit. Did Saruman take these clans and break them apart? _All_ of them? Because there can't have just been one. There _had_ to be more. I hope Ufkoth knows. But I think I'll let him cool down some more before asking.


	22. Better Than Tin Foil Hats

**Better Than Tin Foil Hats**

**March 2, 3019**

I think I've hit on the best possible way to circumvent the Ring's influence on Frodo: singing. I can't recall now how we got on the subject while trudging through this cesspit (the 'strip of non-dead-marshy-land between two _extremely_ dead marshy patches' turned out to have more than its fair share of corpse water), but Sam is now my go-to guy for breaking up uncomfortable silences. Put one little bug in his ear about cheering up, and he bursts into Broadway musicals. Or he would if he knew some. That's now on my list to teach him, starting with _What a Piece of Work is Man_ because I really don't think he'd be on board for a verse or two of _Sodomy*_. He just doesn't seem like the type, contrary to popular belief.

In any case, he led a half-hearted Frodo in some foot-tappy little tavern number they both knew, then Sam asked what sort of music we sing in _my_ world. Oh honey, you just pulled the pin, didn't you?

Zoop Confession Time: I am a closet torch singer. My singing debut was a high school musical, _granted_, but once I got over the stage fright, I had a great time. When me and the kids are in the car, we're blasting the radio and singing our hearts out. It's scary as hell.

And Sam unwittingly asked me to unleash my inner diva. That's like asking Merry if he knows anything about pipeweed.

Naturally, I started off with bouncy and fun. I got the boys (Ufkoth refused to play and just glared, daring me to come near him with my silliness so he could introduce me to his fists) to clap me in, and launched into _Locomotion**_. Once I had their (stunned) attention, I let'em have it with _Run Runaway***_. I even smacked out the drumbeat on my legs.

You can probably guess that Middle Earth music differs _massively_ from modern music. You might also consider my selections to be only marginally classifiable as 'modern,' yuh whippersnappers. Have I not mentioned that I'm an old fart?

Now, up to this point, Frodo has been gradually getting grimmer and more distant. He has _occasionally_ jumped in with a comment or two, but doesn't often get into conversations. He's dead tired, let's be honest. But he'll chat with Ufkoth. Frankly, I think Ufkoth fascinates the hell out of him. The feeling appears to be mutual; after all, Frodo survived a Nazgûl poke. That's pretty impressive.

But it shouldn't really be a surprise. I mean, Frodo was supposed to lavish Gollum with compassion and whatnot. He's just... aiming it at someone else this go-round.

And eventually I get around to the point. The _point_ is, Frodo cheered _way_ up when I got going. Don't get me wrong: I should not quit my day job. There is no _America's Got Talent_ performance in my future. I can carry a tune for a short distance in a bucket, but that's it. Regardless, it was good enough to get a smile on Frodo's face, and when I really hammed it up, he laughed. We're plodding through a marshland with dead people in the water, and he _laughed_. When we stopped to camp, he noted that his heart felt lighter. So even if it means getting Ufkoth into a headlock to sing my "ooga chaka" background vocals****, I'm going to keep the tunes coming. And cross my fingers that laughter is, indeed, One Ring Kryptonite.

* * *

* _What a Piece of Work is Man_ and _Sodomy_ – musical numbers from _Hair_

** _Locomotion_ – Grand Funk Railroad (the only version worth singing)

*** _Run Runaway_ – Slade

**** "ooga chaka" – from _Hooked on a Feeling_ by Blue Suede (again, the only version worth singing)


End file.
